Friday, October 29, 2010

Talk to me when you know what a run-on sentence is. Talk to me when you know what a comma splice is. Talk to me when you know it's "There ARE two" and not "There IS two." Talk to me when you understand subject-verb agreement. Talk to me when you don't look to your ass when I ask you to point out a colon. Talk to me when you don't look to your ass when I ask you to point out a semicolon.

Punctuation, spelling and grammar: is that too much for a girl to ask?

(yes)

Can I get an amen?

(Even if you don't know the definitions by heart, as long as you're able to avoid them and recognize them as being grammatically incorrect, that's all I care about.)

Thursday, October 28, 2010

But I am pro-life. I am pro-life in that I believe in protecting the quality of life of the woman who gets pregnant from a rape. I believe in protecting the quality of life of the young girl who gets raped by her own father. I believe in protecting the life of the child that would likely be traumatic and/or very difficult due to having been born to an abusive family, to no family, or to a mother who was too young or naive or poor, or all of the above, to provide for the child the things he/she would need to have a decent childhood, even if it meant protection via the prevention of the birth of said child.

You're not pro-life if you're anti-abortion, you're anti-choice. And you're not promoting the killing or murdering of babies if you're pro-choice, especially since they're not actually babies, you're promoting the option for women to choose to end their pregnancies before the foetus is even close to being developed.

Whose decision is it to have or not to have an abortion? Is it the government's? Is it the woman's mother's? Is it her pastor's? Her priest's? The bible's? Is it her husband's or her lover's? Is it her doctor's? Is it society's? No. It's the woman's decision. It's her decision because it's her body and it would be her responsibility to bear and raise the child.

Today I heard a politician in a debate say something brilliant directed to anti-abortion supporters who are for it even in cases of rape - incestuous and otherwise. It went along these lines: "If you make abortion illegal, who goes to jail?"

It's as though "pro-life" supporters are more concerned about keeping an unborn, uncooked, non-baby, foetus in the oven regardless of the health problems it could cause during the pregnancy or postpartum, regardless of the difficulties the mother would face attempting to raise the child, and regardless of the difficulties the child would have if it was born. They are more concerned about what could be than what is and what would be, and somehow that's moral.

I am pro-life in that I believe in protecting the life along with the rights and freedoms that all women are entitled to.

Monday, October 25, 2010

"Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen." - John le Carre

"There is nothing more demoralizing than a small but adequate income." - Edmund Wilson

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

This is another story I wrote for my ENG154 Fiction Class. I was to take the same dramatic scene and tell it in four different points of view: first person, limited omniscient, omniscient and objective. I failed royally in objective, and I know I could have done better, but I'm okay with my grade. I think. Crap, now I'm thinking of resubmitting that. Ay! This is my favourite version: first-person POV. It was my teacher's favourite too. Probably because I did this one first and just... changed stuff for the other POVs. I should have spent more time adding details to the other versions.

In any case, here it is, re-edited with the prof's suggestions for your reading pleasure:

A Murder but not a Crime

I began wondering if this was the right address at all and a part of me hoped that it wasn't. I took out the crumpled piece of paper out of my coat pocket as I walked tentatively down the hallway. The wood on the walls and carpet beneath my pumps gave the hall a musky odour: neither unpleasant nor bad, but strangely familiar. I scanned the dark brown doors and their golden plastic numbers, searching for apartment 39 as my paper indicated. I hoped I was wrong about this, but then, there it was: apartment 39. My hand began to shake as I returned the paper to my pocket. My stomach turned and my ears tingled when a muffled sound came from behind the door.

I knew someone was inside, but I wanted to see if I could recognize any voices. I pressed my hands and ear against the wall but all I could hear were more muffled sounds and the occasional squeal. I bet that was her. Goddamn whore. My blood was beginning to boil and I could feel my face become flushed. My heart was pounding in my chest at a thousand beats per minute. I grabbed my purse and ripped the zipper open. I took my shaking hand and dug it into my belongings. My fingers fumbled through them and found the one cold, heavy item they were looking for. It fit in my hand perfectly. I grasped its handle tightly and ran one finger along the trigger.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't believe he'd do this to me. I let out a grunt, dropped the gun out of my hand back into my purse, and collapsed to the ground. I sat with my back to the door. My skirt moved up as I bent my knees. I rested my elbows on them and I dug my face between my arms to cry.

I knew he was doing this. I knew it. I never thought he would. But who ever thinks their spouse will cheat on them? Whatever happened to the vows we made at our wedding? I loved him so much. Didn't he love me too? Even at this moment I still loved him. I wouldn't stop until the day I died. Where did we go wrong? Did I do something wrong? I wished he could understand. I wished he could understand me. I wished he would have talked to me. And why her? Why did it have to be that slutty little bitch, of all people? She knew he was married. She knew ME. We spoke at the Christmas party. She was a slut then, too. I saw the way they looked at each other. I sensed something. God, how long have they been doing this? How many times has he touched me with the same hands he touched her? How many times? Those hands, his hands, on her, on me...

The thought was unbearable. My gut ached; it was like someone had punched me. Another loud squeal came from the apartment. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to imagine what was going on. I did not succeed. My face was covered in streaks of salty water and I suspected that my makeup had leaked down from my eyes. I rubbed the watery, dark, ink-like substance off my face with my hand. I grabbed my purse and stood back up with the help of the wall. Once I regained my balance, I heard them again, louder. He was laughing and she was squealing. She moaned. I felt so flushed and yet I got Goosebumps from hearing this. I was cold and hot and clammy at the same time; I felt like I had a fever.

I took out the key to the apartment from my purse. I had felt guilty for going through his belongings and for getting the key duplicated, but I had not recognized the key, I knew something had been wrong and I refused to just let it go. It was his fault anyway. He had taken things too far. I wouldn't have had to go through all this trouble to find them if he'd just been faithful. Seven years of marriage must have meant nothing to him, but I'd show him how much it meant to me!

I took a quick, deep breath and shoved the key into the keyhole. She moaned again, just at that moment, as if it was the key that was giving her pleasure. I let go of the key, shocked and disgusted. I wanted to throw up. Furious, I took hold of the key again and twisted it. The lock clicked and I swung the door open so hard that it banged against the wall. There was no turning back now. I charged into the apartment in search of my husband and his slut.

I heard them, so they weren't hard to find. Apparently they didn't notice the noise the door made since they were still going at it. I began crying profusely.

"Jason!" I shouted. Immediately, he jumped off her and covered himself. She pulled the sheets to cover her tiny tits as well."Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?""You're asking me? You bastard...""Wait, please, honey.""Shut up," I told him. I pulled out the gun from my purse and both fornicators' eyes widened in horror. The little slut screamed and my husband put his hands in front of him, pleading me to stop. I wouldn't. "Don't do this, baby. You don't... you don't know what you're doing. You're overreacting. Please! Please!" he cried.I took the safety off."I'm sorry. Please! Can't we talk about this first?" he continued."Talk? You want to talk? NOW you want to talk?""Yes, goddamn it!" He began to cry."So it takes my shoving a gun in your face to get you to talk to me. I should have tried this sooner," I replied."Don't do this. Please. Let's talk. Let's just... we can figure this out.""No, we can't...""Please," whispered the skinny skank. I aimed the firearm at her and she screamed and ducked under the sheet. He moved closer and in front of her to protect her. This infuriated me. He was protecting her? I was his wife. I WAS HIS WIFE! How could he do this? How could he?! Why was he still touching her? This was his fault. It was all his fault! And that bitch...

"You deserve each other."

BANG! BANG! Twice I shot that stupid little twat. Blood sprayed on the wall and bed. My husband turned to face his whore. He put his hand on her arm and leaned over her.

BANG! BANG! I shot him too. I walked closer, feeling blood rush through me like I'd never felt it rush through me before. I felt so powerful. I felt so in control. He lay across her lap.

"I hate you," I said to him aloud. "I absolutely fucking hate you." I fired two more shots into him. I dropped the gun and, again, I fell to the floor. I sat with my back pressed against the wall, unable to cry, unable to move, unable to think. I simply sat there, on the floor of my husband's mistress' bedroom, until the police arrived.

Mark: 8.6/10 for all four versions. Would have been higher if it was just this version, I bet. :P While I was writing this, I had the "Cell Block Tango" from Chicago stuck in my head. "He had it coming." The title is a reference to the song as well.

What is it about grilled cheese sandwiches that makes them so unbelievably delicious? Is it the crunch of the outside combined with the soft orange goo on the inside? Is it the taste of slightly burnt bread? Is it the magic that is made when cheese is melted to perfection - until it just begins to drip out of the sides of the bread? Is it the unique delicate saltiness of the cheese that permeates the bread so that you taste cheese with every bite, even when you're eating a lonely, cheese-less corner? Is it the greasiness of the bread that makes it go down smoothly and gives a light-textured crunch to every bite? Is it when the crumbs stick to the corners of your mouth? Or when the flavour of cheese remains in your still-salivating mouth? Does it stare at you, calling you, while you write about it, pleading to be eaten, begging you to forget about how greasy it will make your fingers and, consequently, your keyboard?

Thursday, October 7, 2010

I am so dead right now. I've been dead every day this week and it all started with that damn 16 hour party. Very soon I will post real shit. I sound like a broken record. But I do have a story for you today! If you've ever met my grandma, you'll understand much better than anyone else. If you're related to me, you're my mom and you know everything.

The idea was to develop a character based on someone you know and to take them out of his/her home. My prof mentioned that she would have preferred to see some more reasons for the things my character feels/thinks. I lost the point of view a couple of times but I think if we talked about that more before we handed the assignment in, I would have kept it better. Last class, when we did a point of view exercise (which I'll post next), we talked a lot more about it during the discussion of stories, which was good, but I know that if we'd done that one first, I would have done better at maintaining my POV.

Oh yes! And this is the one that the entire class got to read. Most of my respondents had very good points; some made some stupid comments that I disregarded because they were stupid. "Pastel-like" and questioning why she twitched at the sight of the tattoo. Alexah gave me the best response. She got everything and gave me some very useful suggestions and made some excellent points. She's awesome.

Along with the story, I had to create a Character File that gave some background on the real person. Nationality, occupation, education, appearance, likes and dislikes, religious and political views, things loved, things feared, and so on, were some of the things that was asked for. It was to give a better idea of who the character is.

Here you go:

Ladies’ Night Out

Swava walked into the Cactus Club restaurant with her best friend, both carrying recent purchases from their favourite store, Winners - purchases that would surely cause an argument from their husbands if they found out they had spent money on clothes. The tall hostess greeted them and asked, “Ladies' night out?” The two friends looked at each other, then back up at the young woman and said, “Yes.” The hostess turned to face the dark modern tables and when she did so, Swava saw a large dragon tattoo that went from her neck down to her back and even onto her shoulders. Her lip twitched slightly and she quickly diverted her attention to something more pleasant as they walked to the table.

Swava noticed the hostess' black high-heeled shoes and the stylish, form-fitting dress she wore. She thought back to the days when she could wear dresses that showed off her small waist, sizeable bosoms and lean legs. Although it had been many years since she wore 3-inch heels, she still looked fashionable in her bronze metallic sandals, white jacket and blue denim jeans. She was not the type to wither away behind oversized pastel t-shirts and ugly brown shoes, but instead went for looks that were stylish, comfortable and appropriate for her age. She was not one of those skinny, bony, old, witch-like grandmothers, nor was she a large, plump, round-faced Mrs. Claus. She was of healthy weight and always looked classy. She did not come from a lot of money, but, like her mother, she was a seamstress and was always interested in fashion.

Even after seeing the large tattoo on the hostess' back, she smiled at the young woman, who was much taller than the two friends, and thanked her once she sat down and learned of the Soup of the Day. Swava noticed that the napkin on the table was not perpendicular to the edge of the table. She lifted her soft, fragile fingers to fix it.Two waters arrived for the ladies but they decided to order some tea as well. Swava would have it straight - no sugar, no cream.

“So,” began Swava's French friend, “How are things with you and Andrew?” Swava's eyes grew wide. “Oh, you know...” she said in her Polish accent as she played with her favourite jade earring. “It's okay. We are okay. You know how he is.” Her hand came back down to the table and she rearranged her large metal bracelet so it was more comfortable on her wrist.“Ahhh, yes. Shall I bring your clothes over this weekend sometime then, ah?” her friend asked.“Yes, I will call you. Thank you for doing this. I just don't want to start anything with him,” explained Swava. She ran her delicate hands along the cold wet glass of water as if to clean them and, before drying them off with her napkin, which she made sure was then left perpendicular, she massaged her thumbs that had become somewhat swollen from her arthritis. “Plus, this way he won't even know that I got anything,” she added.“I understand,” replied her friend. “And if he asks, just say it was a gift or that you had it all along!”Swava nodded. Their teas came and the waitress asked them if they needed more time to think about their order. They did, as they hadn't even touched the menus.“He's been talking about selling the house again,” said Swava.“Ah yes? Ah, well...” her friend said, not knowing how to respond.“I don't know what to do. I don't know what I will do. You're such a good friend; I don't want to move away from you.”“Ah, but Swava! We'll still see each other. It won't be too hard. I mean, it won't be easy but I have a car and...”“I know. But right now all I have to do is take a few steps and I am at your house. Plus, the grandchildren almost grew up in this house. But, I suppose if we have to, we have to,” she reasoned. She knew if she didn't change the subject quickly she would get emotional and there was nothing worse than crying in public. As it was, her green eyes teared up but she did not let any tears fall.“Oui. C'est la vie, no? Swava?” The Frenchwoman leaned in and reached for Swava's hand. “I will still be here. It will be okay,” she insisted.Swava didn't agree but she did not say any more. They picked up their menus and just after making their decision, the waitress returned to take their order.“I have to, ehh, go to the bathroom,” said Swava's friend after the waitress left. “Will you come with me?”“Oh yes!” Swava said enthusiastically. “I don't really have to, but it's so nice in there; I will go anyway.”

While appreciating the cleanliness and decor of the Cactus Club washroom, the two European friends agreed to not talk any more about their husbands. After all, it was Ladies' Night Out and not Ladies' and their Annoying Husbands' Night Out.

The Globulator.

Feminist, atheist, freak. I'm a creative writing student at the University of Victoria. I worship and am ruled by my cat, Lucy (or Lucifer). I'm a piano key banger, camera clicker, yummy-goodness baker, guitar beginner, quirky movie and groovy music lover, and a passionate procrastinator. I have a strange sense of humour and a lack of... height.